Once Broken Faith (15 page)

“First among farmers,” said a voice from somewhere in the gallery. Snickering followed.

Color rose in Chrysanthe's cheeks, tinting them an odd shade of rose-gold. Golden Hinds even bled gilded. “Yes, we are a farming community. The agrarian arts are as important as any other—or have you forgotten who provides your fairy fruits? Your pomegranates full and fine, as the poets say? We grow wine-pears and silver grapes in mortal soil, and make them taste as rich as anything grown in Faerie. Without us, you'd all be shopping at Whole Foods and trying to make sense of the tasteless blobs that humans insist count as ‘tomatoes.' We
feed
you. Perhaps ours is a bad hand to bite.”

The snickers subsided. No one looked particularly annoyed. This was the way purebloods did things: with snide comments and little jabs, to make sure no one forgot their place.

“The last kingdom census of Golden Shore showed
that fully two-thirds of our subjects were changelings, and that is why we stand before you today, and ask you not to approve the distribution of this so-called ‘cure.'” Chrysanthe bowed. “Your attention is most gratifyingly received.”

“Wait,
what
?” My voice rang out through the gallery. Chrysanthe froze in the act of sitting, turning to stare at me. She looked less offended than simply surprised.

That wasn't true of everyone. Some of the nobles who were now looking in my direction seemed frankly offended by the fact that a changeling had opened her mouth. I considered sinking into my seat and trying to disappear, but as no one was commanding me to shut up, I decided to push my luck. I stood.

“Why would having so many changelings in your community make you decide
against
the cure?” I asked. “Most of us don't have a hundred years to lose.”

Chrysanthe straightened, standing again, and looked at me with almost sympathetic eyes. “How far back in your family line is your human ancestor?” she asked. There was kindness in her voice. That was surprising. “A grandparent? A great-grandparent? You may not understand the challenges faced by those who are more mortal.”

“My father,” I said, somehow managing not to wince. I was used to living in the Mists, where everyone sort of understood the circumstances of my birth, and had grown accustomed to watching the mortality bleed out of me, one drop at a time. Faerie always demanded payment for the sort of things I did. All too often, what it wanted was my heritage.

“What?” Chrysanthe looked confused. Then her eyes narrowed. “I would appreciate it, Queen Windermere, if you'd keep your vassals from making jokes during what should be a serious discussion.”

“She isn't making a joke, I assure you,” said Arden. “She's Amandine's daughter.”

Mom has a reputation for being the best blood-worker in Faerie. Maybe it's unfair—I bet Eira could have given her a run for her money, if she were, you know,
awake
—but as she's one of the only Firstborn still walking around and doing things, it's not unearned. Mom being Firstborn isn't common knowledge outside of the Mists. Quickly, I said, “My mother changed the balance of my blood to protect me, and I had access to a hope chest for a short time. I promise you, my father was human. I haven't given up this much of my mortality out of shame or pride, but for the sake of Faerie, and to protect the ones I care for.”

“I . . . see,” said Chrysanthe, looking faintly bemused. “The choices you have made aren't available to most of our subjects. Hope chests are rare to the point of becoming legend, and Amandine doesn't come to visit very often. The blood they are given by their parents is the blood they will carry all the days of their lives.”

“I know,” I said. “That's why I'm confused.”

Chrysanthe blinked slowly. “You really don't understand, do you? You are aware of what elf-shot does to those with mortal blood?”

“As you were told earlier, I've been elf-shot twice,” I said, fighting to keep the chill from my voice. “I nearly died both times. So yeah, I have some idea.” The image of my daughter struggling to breathe flashed unbidden through my mind. Gillian had been too human from the beginning. The elf-shot would have claimed her if I hadn't changed her blood. To save her, I had been forced to lose her forever. How dare this pureblood queen look at me like I didn't understand what elf-shot could cost? I knew better than anyone.

Elf-shot could cost the world.

“Right now, with no cure, when purebloods go to war, we have to weigh the chance of putting our people to sleep for a hundred years against the desire to end the conflict quickly and cleanly,” she said. “We have to
decide between real arrows and elf-shot, because it
is
a decision. Oberon's Law allows for deaths in war, but most of us don't want to kill each other, even when a conflict must turn violent.”

A general murmur of agreement swept through the room. I didn't believe it—most of the purebloods I'd known were perfectly happy to kill each other, as long as they felt like they could get away with it—but I didn't say anything.

“Give the world a cure, and there's no decision,” said Chrysanthe. “Most purebloods would have the elf-shot notched before they knew whether there was a changeling in the room, because under the Law,
changelings don't count
. If they kill a few mongrels in the process of subduing an enemy force, who cares? They can always wake up the people who matter. They can fill the air with arrows, and suffer no losses at all.”

I stared at her, mouth suddenly dry. What she was saying made a terrible, brutal sort of sense. I'd been looking at the cure for elf-shot as if it would somehow remove elf-shot from the equation completely: like the purebloods would willingly set aside one of their greatest weapons because the game had changed. They wouldn't. They were never going to give it up. They were just going to change the way that they used it.

Faerie was never going to be safe for changelings. The fact that I persisted in believing it someday, somehow could be was just another sort of madness.

Chrysanthe shook her head. “The cure is too dangerous. It would take a weapon used judiciously and turn it into a weapon to be used without hesitation or thought. The Kingdom on the Golden Shore will not support its distribution, and we hope those of you with compassion in your hearts will see as we do.” She remained standing for a few seconds longer, clearly waiting for someone to speak. When no one did, she offered a shallow bow to the stage, and sat.

“We appreciate your candor,” said Maida. There was a thin note of strain in her voice. Like me, she hadn't considered what the cure might mean for the changelings of the Westlands; she'd seen it as a salve, and not a new form of poison. I wondered whether anyone who didn't know her origins would hear that unhappiness, or whether it only seemed clear to me because of what I'd already learned. “Who will speak?”

“I will speak,” said Sylvester. I stiffened as my liege stood, standing as straight and proud as he had on the day when he first came through the wall of my room and offered me the Changeling's Choice. That was the real problem with being surrounded by immortals: my childhood heroes still looked exactly the same. The only one changing was me.

“Then speak,” said Maida.

Sylvester inclined his head in gracious acknowledgment. “I was granted regency over the Duchy of Shadowed Hills as a reward for my service to the Kingdom of the Westlands, and for my service before coming here, when I dwelt in the Kingdom of Londinium. I have been a hero of the realm for centuries, called upon to serve as Faerie required. By any measure, I have paid my dues as a member of our glorious society of the undying, and while I have no aspirations to be a king in my own right, I have as much a place in our world as any who wears the crown.”

His words were smooth, evenly cadenced: he was drawing on some obscure point of pureblood etiquette to make his point, reminding the others of the days when crowns were passed with more regularity. Kingdoms used to be smaller, and more prone to randomly invading each other. The situation with King Rhys and his puppet government in Silences had been unusual for the modern world. There was a time, though, when that was just as common a means of taking a throne as inheritance.

Then again, considering what had happened to King Antonio, maybe things hadn't changed that much after all.

“We see and acknowledge your place,” said High King Aethlin.

“My wife, Luna, is the daughter of two of the Firstborn,” said Sylvester. “Her father was the monster we called ‘Blind Michael.' Her mother, Acacia, yet lives, and is known as the Mother of the Trees.”

There was barely time to register the tension in the Luidaeg's shoulders before she was on her feet, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted. “You can't use your wife's parentage to support your claims of status and call my brother ‘monster' in the same breath,” she said. “That right is not yours.”

To his credit—his small, self-destructive credit—Sylvester met her eyes without flinching. “My apologies, sea witch, and believe me when I say I have no desire to incur your wrath, but . . . your brother
was
a monster.”

“That doesn't mean you have the right to call him that,” the Luidaeg spat back.

A murmur ran through the crowd, and a few people shifted in their seats, putting themselves a little further from Sylvester and the smiting that was presumably about to happen. I didn't move. Neither did Quentin. Sylvester was Daoine Sidhe. That made him a child of Titania's bloodline, and meant the Luidaeg couldn't raise a hand against him, no matter how much she wanted to. The bindings Evening had placed upon her were too strong. For the first time, I was grateful for that. Sylvester and I might not currently be on the best of terms, but that didn't mean I wanted him reduced to a fine red mist.

There was a long pause before Sylvester offered her a shallow bow. “I meant neither offense nor to claim status that was not mine by right,” he said. “I merely wish to be sure my situation is known and understood before I make my plea.”

The Luidaeg said nothing. She just stood there and looked at him. I was close enough to see the white lines beginning to thread through her irises like creeping fog. Nothing good ever came of the Luidaeg's eyes changing. Quickly, before I thought better, I reached over and put a hand on her arm. She glanced at me, eyes going wide, startled, and—thankfully—back to driftglass green as she snapped back into the moment.

“Please,” I said softly, and managed not to scowl when the spells on the stage caught my voice and projected it to the entire room. “Can we just let him finish? Please. For me.”

“Does the changeling run this conclave?” asked a voice—Duke Michel from Starfall again. I should probably have expected him to be on my case after he'd been told to basically sit down and shut up.

What I wasn't expecting was for Sylvester to whirl before anyone else had a chance to speak, and say, in a low, grating tone, “You have insulted the honor of my household, sir. I will see you on the dueling grounds at dawn.”

Duke Michel stared. I stared. For one shining, bizarre moment, we were united. Then Michel turned to the stage, and the moment was over.

“I've insulted no one,” he said. “Duke Torquill insults
me
by claiming insult when none was offered. I simply asked a question.”

“A question you had already asked, if in a different form, that you posed without permission to a knight sworn into his service,” said High King Sollys. He sounded almost bored, like this sort of disruption was to be expected, but was still beneath his notice. “How was that not an insult? You continually call the honor of a member of his household into question, and now he wants recompense. His claim is supported. The insult is valid.”

Duke Michel looked stunned. Sylvester looked smug. I gave serious thought to how much trouble I'd get in if
I started knocking people's heads together. I couldn't tell whether Michel was so prejudiced that he didn't realize what he was doing, or whether this was a calculated means of keeping the attention of the conclave focused on the wrong thing: me. The elf-shot cure was what mattered here, not my honor.

“Sir Daye is a hero of the realm and a valued part of my court,” said Sylvester, tone turning deceptively mild. “Defending her honor is only a fraction of what I, as her liege, owe to her. Bring your second, Michel. Bring your sword. And prepare to learn the error of your ways.”

“Now that this has been settled, please, Duke Torquill, if you would continue in your petition for understanding?” Maida settled deeper into her throne, posture reflecting disinterest that I had absolute faith she didn't feel. No one could slouch that insouciantly without intent.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” said Sylvester, switching his attention back to the stage and offering the High Queen a quick bow. He was bowing so often that he was starting to look like one of those ballpark bobblehead dolls. “I have given my wife's pedigree so that you'll understand what we have faced, what we have endured, and what we have risen above.”

The Luidaeg, who had been standing throughout the discussion, sank back into her seat. Her eyes were clear and green and filled with shadows.

“My sister, September, is dead. My brother, Simon, lies elf-shot and sleeping, and will stand trial for his crimes against me when he wakes—crimes which, once, would have carried the penalty of elf-shot.” Sylvester's mouth twisted like he was trying not to smile. If he had, it wouldn't have been a gentle expression. “Who knows what the penalty for kidnapping and treason will be now? My only child and heir, Rayseline, also lies sleeping. They'll wake within a few years of each other if allowed to slumber out their spans. How is that fair, I ask
you? When my brother the criminal and my daughter his victim must sleep through the same number of years, must miss the same portion of their lives? My counterparts from the Golden Shore make a true and valid point—that we endanger the weakest among us if we distribute this cure but do not also ask that the use of elf-shot be reduced. So why not take that additional step? Restrict the use of elf-shot to the field of war and to the punishment of those who must make reparation for what they have done.”